She looks for lefthanders
near the border between

Minneapolis and Saint Paul,
between staying and leaving, between

walking and tumbling off, between
fade and fate.

She wants to find a way
to celebrate her invisible skin.

Invisible face. Invisible hair.
So invisible, she becomes

an imaginary friend
just like the one who built

mini-towns with her
in dirt and sand and gravel

on an island nobody owns.

She’s not talking
to herself; she’s just talking

to someone
who left the room

before her fingers began to stiffen
with arthritic self-awareness.

She takes selfies
in the nude. Deletes

the evidence. Thinks of you. Deletes
more evidence.

She crosses the Mississippi
on a train on a rainy August morning

looking for lefthanders—
finds a few.